Batman: The Joker's Revenge
by MissScorp
Summary: The kid had somehow survived his beating; he'd somehow survived the bombs he'd set to blow that warehouse to bits. How he'd done it, he did not know. Nor was he terribly amused that his puppet had disrupted his plans by not dying as he was supposed to. Well, Robin was going to die this time, guaranteed! High T for violence, language, suggestive themes.
1. Revenge

**A/N:** Hello m'dears… and welcome!

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* * *

He giggled as he pulled the trigger.

And cried as he giggled, fat balls of wet tears which rolled down his gaunt cheeks and pooled in the cracks and crevices of a painted mouth known for its garrulousness.

This was going to be the grandest of finales between him and Batman...

Oh, it promised to be ever so much fun!

He'd gone to an insanely huge amount of trouble to ensure everything was going to be absolutely _perfect_.

It had to be...

Or else there was going to be hell to pay, the Joker thought, his verdant eyes glinting in the shadows of the alleyway.

He'd chosen this alley for a reason, knew that it carried a weight of memories for his dear, dark Knight. He'd selected the place where Batman discovered the foul-mouthed little brat. It was the very alley, in fact, where the adorable little scamp had tried to boost the tires off the Batmobile. The boy's guts were why he'd chosen him to become Batman's newest Boy Blunder. The boy was perfect for the role; he was everything a _good_ Robin should be. He was bold, brash, fearless, ambiguously moralistic and willing to do what ole Bats couldn't.

Sure, the boy gave him some trouble once he'd been trained up and dumped into those adorable green daisy dukes. It was only to be expected, though. The boy had been given the prestigious role as his agent of chaos. It wouldn't be seemly if Robin didn't live up to his expected role. Watching as his precious Knight tried to turn the little gutter rat into something that somewhat resembled the first Boy Blunder had provided him with hours upon hours of entertainment.

The Joker cackled a deep, throaty laugh as he recalled the enjoyment he'd received. He'd watched from the sidelines as the boy struggled with Batman's silly principles. He'd seen him willfully defy his darling's edicts and obtain justice the way a real Robin should. He'd gleefully aided his little puppet in circumventing his mentor's orders and wreaking what havoc he could upon Batman's life. More droplets rolled down his cheeks as he recalled how frazzled the big man had been with some of his young protégés antics. _Oh, it'd been marvelous fun,_ he thought now. Whoever said you couldn't enjoy a toy before breaking it when it served out its usefulness had never had a toy that was quite as much fun as his little Robin.

Oh, but Robin was more than just a toy. He was more than just a fountain of amusement. The boy was to be his coup d'état, his way of overthrowing those pesky little morals his Bats had. Robin was going to be his way of awakening Batman to the truth: that he was just as crazy as the rest of them. The plan had been brilliant; it was _guaranteed_ to be a huge success. He'd finally figured out how exactly he could get around Batman's one little golden rule. He'd finally discovered just how he could bring Batman down to his level. Kill Robin and Batman was _sure_ to explode.

It was going to be beautiful!

It was way beyond brilliant!

It was his swansong!

Yet the kid had somehow survived his beating; Robin had somehow survived the bombs he'd set to blow that warehouse to bits. How he'd done it, the Joker did not know. He wasn't terribly amused that his puppet had disrupted his plans by not dying as he was supposed to, either. How dare the kid play such a cruel joke! How dare he defy his request to be a good little boy and die. Robin had managed to play a prank upon him. Him! The Prince of Fools! _I mean really! Faking your own death_? _That's not funny_, he thought with a scoff. No, it was really quite cruel of the kid, in fact. The only honorable thing here was for Robin to die again, he thought as he stuck his still smoking pistol into the waistband of his trousers. This time the kid was going to _stay_ dead. Those mangled scarlet lips twitched into what could almost be called a _smile_ even as he said, "Not going to be able to fake your way outta this one, kiddo."

Yes, he'd certainly taught the boy a lesson in scene stealing, now, hadn't he? Oh, the Joker knew the rags were gonna label him a monster for killing a kid. Not that he much cared for their opinions. He needed Robin dead if he wanted to push his Bats over the edge. So dead Robin now was. He giggled as he circled around his masterpiece.

Everything was going as he planned it.

All of his dreams were about to come true.

It just required Robin fulfilling his part as he'd promised.

Oh, the Boy Blunder wasn't gonna fool him again! Nope, not this time! Even now the boy's heart was slowing down, his breathing coming in short, tattered rasps. The light was already fading from those pretty blue eyes. Oh, he could just imagine the look that was going to be on his dear Knight's face when he saw what he'd done. How utterly terrible his rage and grief was going to be! His grin stretched wider as he crouched beside the boy.

"Now, I must be off. But you be a good boy now, lie here in this nice, dark alley quietly, and be dead when the big man finds you. Can you do that for your Uncle Joker, kiddo? Can you?" he clapped his hands and giggled with glee. "Oh, I'm sure you can! You already are being such a little trooper about this! I honestly do appreciate your sacrifice. Tootles now, kiddo! It was nice knowing ya!"

He stood up, eyeballing his work with great glee before he slowly began to stroll out of the alley. Oh, he was in high spirits! He'd taught Robin about stealing his spotlight. He'd made him pay for his cruel little joke. The boy was going to finally fulfill his role as his coup d'état. The big man was gonna lose his mind.

Oh, it was going to be brilliant.

It was going to be absolutely perfect.

Batman was going to finally break his golden rule.

He couldn't wait.

His high, keening laugh echoed off the buildings, rocketing out over the air and catching the attention of a masked wanderer who was nearby. A silent guardian who immediately came to see just what it was that was so amusing the Clown Prince of Crime.


	2. Puzzle Pieces

**A/N:** Hello m'dears… I hope that the week has been a good one to you.

To all those who have hit the favorite/follow/review buttons I am deeply grateful!

To all new followers, welcome! Please, if you like this story, click the follow/favorite button. Also, reviews are deeply cherished!

* * *

The Joker saw the black SUV, parked at the curb, and—was this great or what?—a masked figure had just dropped down at the entrance into the alley he was trying to exit. _Well, well_, he thought as he fit himself into a space between two buildings. _Who do we have here__?_ She was definitely not that annoying Batharpy his King had had following him around for a while. Oh no, this little beauty had hair as black as his Knight's suit, and eyes a darker shade of green than his own. He watched as she slowly crept towards where he'd left his greatest masterpiece lying in an ever growing pool of blood.

He caught her scent as she passed by him, and the fragrance was jasmine and nerves. Locks twisted, and the doors of his memories opened and reminded him of a figure who'd looked much like this one, but a few years younger. Oh, yes, he remembered this particular little lovely now. She was the first Boy Blunder's gal pal. She was the one who came before that obnoxious red-headed rat. She was the little twit who'd prevented him from creating his masterpiece the first time around. He'd yet to thank her for her interference.

The Joker's eyes glinted with his glee at being given a new toy so soon after he'd discarded his old one, and his mangled lips formed a smile so chilling that even the spiders and rats scurried off in search of some place warmer. It was going to be a matter of perfect timing, but he did so love this sort of a challenge. The Clown Prince slipped down the alley after her, getting closer, closer, until he was a few inches away…

He slipped by her.

Oh, yes, this was shaping up to be the grandest of finales between him and the Bats...

It was promising to be ever so much fun!

Everything was going according to plan.

And now he had the final piece of the puzzle he needed to make Batman finally break that one damned rule of his.

He couldn't wait was his silent musing as he made his way over to the black SUV and climbed inside.

* * *

He really shouldn't be surprised that she was gone. He really should have realized what the daft woman was about when she'd started blowing off their training sessions and turning down going with him on patrols. _Swamped with schoolwork and work related cases, my ass, Raya_, Dick Grayson thought as he stared at the yellow paper in his hand. Gone to Gotham_, _it read, don't follow. I am going to get over my cowardice even if it kills me.

It was a note penned by a woman incapable of accepting that her fears did not make her weak. Raya was anything _but_ weak. Suspicious, emotionally crippled, dealing with an anxiety disorder stemming from traumatic events she'd endured as a child and fanatically obsessed with seeing the man responsible for them brought to justice, yes. But weak? Absolutely not. Not that she believed him whenever he told her that. Oh no, not Raya Kean. That silly woman would merely smile, kiss him on the forehead, and tell him how he was looking at her through biased eyes. Which, sure, he was, but that was beyond the point. She was not weak. Period.

Dick sighed; one long, frustrated breath before reading her note again. He knew why she was pushing herself so hard: _Bruce_. They both were able to see that Batman was steadily unraveling at the seams. They'd watched the news reports, and read the articles depicting the lengths that he was going in order to bring even the lowliest of Gotham's criminals to justice. Broken bones, contusions and concussions were on an ever increasing rise. Bruce was walking a very fine line, and coming closer and closer to crossing it. It may have been eleven months since the brutal murder of Jason Todd—the second Robin—but Batman was still grieving, still blaming himself as if it had only happened yesterday. Blame that he and his grim ex-mentor shared in abundance.

For if Bruce Wayne was guilty of the fall of Jason Todd, then so was Dick Grayson. His shoulders stooped and his head hung as he recalled again how it'd been him who had given Jason one of his old Robin uniforms, him who'd encouraged the teenager to do his best, and him who told Bruce (when he'd doubted his decision to make the teen his partner) that it would be good for Batman to have another Robin. "Batman needs Robin," he'd told him. "And you need someone to keep you from brooding alone in your cave."

Without his interference, Jason Todd might never have become Robin.

And without his becoming Robin, Jason Todd might still be alive today.

_No_. Raya would tell him that that was the grief and guilt talking. She'd say there was no way that either of them could have known, that they could have predicted what the Joker had planned to do. She'd tell him he couldn't blame himself for what happened in that warehouse, that he hadn't known what was going on because Bruce had not informed him of the situation and so couldn't hold himself as being responsible for stopping the fatalistic events. And she'd point out that the Joker would never have gotten his hands upon Jason had the teen not chosen to defy Bruce's edicts and gone in search of his mother alone. But he still blamed himself for the kid's death. Just as he still blamed himself for his parent's deaths.

The shadow of a smile creased his lips as he heard a familiar voice whisper in his mind about how he was becoming more and more like Bruce every day. Course, if Raya was here, he'd tease her about the pot calling the kettle black. To which she'd make that adorable little _ffff_ sound of hers and remind him about how clouded emotions were dangerous, and would only come back to haunt him the more that he repressed them. He looked again at her note. _That's why you are killing yourself, isn't it_? He asked the absent woman. _You know Bruce is haunted right now by Jason's death and doing everything he can to avoid dealing with his emotions_. Not that that came as any type of surprise to Dick. Bruce never liked talking about the things burrowing around inside that brain of his, and tended to bury himself in work whenever his rage and grief grew to be more than he could bear.

But he was pushing himself hard, harder than Dick had ever seen him push himself before. It was as if Bruce believed that the only way in which he could atone for the death of Jason was through destroying himself. The more risks he took, the more times he endangered his own life; it was all being done with a singular purpose in mind. Dick was beginning to suspect that whatever was driving Bruce was something that went deeper than just Jason's death. There was something else driving Bruce to take all these chances.

The answer flashed into him, warm and bright. _Tim_. It was his taking of Timothy Drake as Robin that was making Bruce act so irrationally. Bruce was feeling as if he'd somehow betrayed Jason by accepting Tim as his new partner. It explained why he'd chosen to take down Ra's al Ghul and the League of Assassin on his own, engaged Bane in a brutal battle which had nearly seen him defeated, and beat the Joker within an inch of his life. Bruce Wayne was not only blaming himself for the death of Jason Todd, he was also condemning himself for allowing Timothy Drake to replace the fallen teen as his partner.

_But you know that, don't you_? He again asked his absent partner and best friend. _You know he is on a collision course with the Grim Reaper. And you're trying to be there to catch him when he falls. Same as he was there to catch you when you fell__._ With a sigh, Dick crumpled the note and tossed it into the waste basket before he went to pack some clothing and his armor into an overnight bag. Whether he liked it or not, he was headed home to Gotham. _The things I do for you, Rae_, he thought as he zipped the bag and left his apartment.

* * *

It was dark by nine in Gotham City, and the streets were more vacant than usual. A curfew had been put into effect after a breakout had occurred at Blackgate a few days prior. Not that anybody was much surprised that a breakout had occurred. The justice system in Gotham was like a revolving door. Criminals got rounded up, sat in holding while awaiting arraignment, got sentenced to prison, and were back on the streets within a matter of days. Those who needed more adult supervision, who needed to be further removed from society because they were incapable of curbing their criminal activities, were the ones who got out before the lock had clicked on their cell doors. Once again Gotham was being ravaged by an anachronistic clown hell-bent on playing with his costumed playmate. Whether that playmate wanted to play with him or not was of no matter to a man like the Joker.

All theater and musical performances had been cancelled in the wake of the Joker's breakout. Gotham Square and all of downtown were silent, restaurants closed and shops locked up for the night. Only a few of the city's movie houses, nightclubs and bars were still open, and there were citizens frequenting them in a stubborn refusal to allow the Joker to steal their only source of amusement from them. At the newly built police headquarters, recently elected Police Commissioner James Gordon stood next to a klieg spotlight, its beam shining a brilliant white beam that shot a symbol in the shape of a bat up into the cloudless sky.

"Switch it off, Jim," Detective Harvey Bullock said. "Batman ain't coming."

"Give him time, Harvey. He'll be here."

"He doesn't wanna talk to ya, Jim," Bullock said gruffly. "Ever since Robin was killed, he has not wanted to talk with much of anybody. And God help who or what gets in his way. That he hasn't killed anybody is amazing to me."

Silently, Gordon was forced to agree with the detective's assessment. Batman had changed since Robin was killed. He'd become more reckless and ruthless, more brutal in his apprehension of all types of criminals. There had been a few questionable _accidents_ (he had not believed Batman's story about the Riddler having fallen from the roof of the Gotham Library) and more than a few petty thieves had ended up with more than a few broken bones (Edwin Crandell was still recovering from a shattered femur). Sometimes Gordon found himself amazed at how none of the criminals ended up dead with how battered they ended up getting.

It was a return to the Batman he'd first met so many years ago—the angry, brutal and vengeful man who'd swoop out of the shadows and slam a thug's head into the concrete without caution or care. Gordon was trying to give his friend some leeway, and some understanding. Losing a partner was a hard enough fact to deal with. Losing a partner who was so young, and a son at that? It was enough to drive even a man like Batman to his breaking point. Gordon reached up and took off his eyeglasses, pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers in hopes it would reduce the pressure building there. Bullock saw the stress and fatigue and reached up to clap a heavy hand upon that stooped shoulder.

"What Batman needs?" he said to his longtime partner and friend. "What he really needs? Is that girl of yours to come home." He pushed his fedora back on his head and glanced up at the sky. "That kid is what pulled him outta this phase the last time. Well, her and the first Robin he had paling around with him."

"Raya's not ready to come home," Jim told him in a dark, somber voice. He turned world-weary blue eyes towards him. "Harvey, she can't even enter the damned city without falling to pieces." He raked his fingers through his steadily graying hair. "I've only seen anxiety disorders this severe in army personnel."

Harvey blew out a heavy breath. He'd known the kid was dealing with some deep psychological issues, but he hadn't known they were quite that severe. "Berkeley did a lot of damage to the kid. Her life was a private warfare."

"And the son of a bitch was able to buy his way out of a prison sentence." Jim heard the raw bitterness in his voice even as Bullock did, but he didn't apologize for it. Harvey understood his sentiments. He was a father, himself, and couldn't imagine ever hurting his kids in the ways that Berkeley had hurt his daughter.

"Berkeley is gonna find out that she's back, Jim," he spoke as gently as he could. "And he's gonna go after her. Ya know that he will."

"What do you suggest that I do, Harvey? This is more than just my niece we're talking about here." He turned to stare pensively out over the city. "Raya is as much my daughter as Barbara. And I want to shield her from anything, and everything that could hurt her. The same as I do Barbara."

Harvey squeezed his shoulder. It was not often that Jim admitted aloud that he saw the girl as more than his niece. Then again, there were just some things that did not need explaining. Anybody who saw the two together knew they were much more than just uncle and niece. "Protecting our kids is what every father wants to do, Jim. If they are good fathers," he added after a moment's pause.

"Yeah," Jim said. "Yeah it is." He issued a heavy sigh and his head hung as long buried memories rose to haunt him. He'd never forget the two times in which he'd failed to protect Barbara and Raya. He much doubted he ever would forget those times. How could he? Bullock knew what the man was thinking; feeling. He felt the cold burn of anger for it. Not at Jim, oh no. His rage was aimed at the men who'd willfully chosen to hurt two innocent women for no good reason then because they wanted too.

"Ya can't blame yourself, Jim. Ya did the best you could. And those girl's know that. But…" God, was there any word more terrible to say than but? He didn't think so. "The Joker is again running amok through the city. And as much as I hate to admit it, we need Batman to help us stop him."

"I know we do…" Jim said with another sigh. "But we may not have Batman. Not right now."

"Batman has been teetering upon a very slippery slope these last few months. If it weren't for ya stopping him, he'd have killed that clown the last time. I don't think he'll allow ya to stop him again."

No, Gordon didn't think that Batman would allow him to stop him from killing the Joker again, either. He ran a weary hand over his whiskered face. "You're asking me to break a promise to my child, Harvey."

Yeah, Harvey knew he was asking Jim to break a promise that he'd made to his kid. But the lines of keeping Gotham safe, or upholding a promise made to his child were not distinct from the other. For him, revealing Raya's location to Batman was all a matter of doing what was necessary to not only ensure the safety of the city, but to save the tortured Dark Knight as well. "We need her help, Jim."

"I know," Gordon said on a long breath. "I know we do. I'm just afraid of what the consequences will be if I tell him that she's with his boy in Blüdhaven."

"I'm thinking about what the consequences might be if ya don't tell him, Jim."


	3. Become the Night

**A/N:** Hello m'dears… I hope that the week has been a good one to you.

To all those who have hit the favorite/follow/review buttons I am deeply grateful!

To all new followers, welcome! Please, if you like this story, click the follow/favorite button. Also, reviews are deeply cherished!

* * *

_Become the night_.

That was what Master Zou told him after his travels led him to train at the legendary monk's knee. It was the first lesson the Grand Master of the Brotherhood of Shadow said he needed to learn before he could move on to becoming a true warrior of the night. How Zou had known-indeed, how the Grand Master had even come to suspect just what it was that Bruce planned on doing with all the training he'd been collecting over the course of his time abroad, he did not know. Somehow, though, Zou had known and so granted to him the greatest piece of knowledge he could ever hope to obtain. He'd learned much while training with Master Zou, but nothing more crucial than those three simple words.

_Become the night_.

The phrase flickered into his mind as he barreled down a service road, en route to the mammoth compound known as the _Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane_. Arkham (as the asylum was commonly called), sat upon an island located just off the coast of Gotham City. The facility was only reachable by a long stretch of road that was without working streetlights. Both sides of the street were lined with leafless trees that danced like skeletons in the warm breeze. The surrounding field was vacant of any other type of vegetation, and deprived of anything to block out the eerie chill slithering its way across the fractured pavement.

Batman hated the long drive to the asylum. He imagined the highway to hell was a shorter road than this one. He was being driven away by his ever growing distrust of the asylum and its staff. Within the cavernous walls was a cognitively demanding environment where constant vigilance over staff and patients was a necessity. The asylum's guards, doctors, and various other staff kept as close an eye upon their diverse colony as they could. The closed-circuit cameras posted throughout the compound were state of the art. Guards went on constant patrols, and every form of communication was closely monitored. Yet even with all the technological modifications that the new Warden had made to the asylum's security system, there was still a large number of his population who required even more strict measures in order to keep them from escaping.

_And then there were some_, he thought, his lips peeling back in a wordless snarl that the darkest pit in the asylum could not seem to contain. No matter what provisions were instituted, no matter what precautions were taken, the Joker always managed to find a way in which to escape. It became something of a jest between Alfred and Dick Grayson about how the Joker tended to break into Arkham whenever he needed a vacation, and out again whenever he decided he was bored and wanted to play with his pointy-eared BFF. Batman saw it as another of the clown's manipulative techniques at work. Whenever the Joker broke out of Arkham was just another of his staged acts meant to make him the center of attention. His last breakout had resulted in Gotham being turned into an anarchic playground dominated by the prisoners the Clown Prince released from Blackgate.

He'd done it just for the sheer shits and giggles of it.

Same as he'd murdered a sixteen-year old boy for the sheer thrill of it.

Everything the Joker did was for his own amusement and whimsy.

_Not anymore, _he decided, foot stomping down on the gas pedal. _I'm going to put the Joker away once and for all tonight_.

"Become the night," Zou told him. He'd become the night. He was the shadow lurking around every corner. He was the one the bad guys had nightmares about. He was the seeker of justice, the guardian of truth, the dark avenger of the wronged. For ten years now, he'd been the night's warrior. Until eleven months ago he'd had no regrets in dedicating his service to the night. Then the very night which he'd so faithfully served horrifically failed him. It was the night who failed to predict what was going to happen after Jason reached Ethiopia. It was the night that had not whispered to him about how the Joker was also in Africa. The night veiled his skeletal frame from view. The night willfully kept secret about how the knave was planning a deed most foul in order to push his Knight into breaking his one golden rule. It was the night who failed to reveal to him the events that were about to unfold in that damned warehouse. It was the night who failed to tell him about what was to happen to his Robin- his soldier, his protégé, his _son_. And it was the night that'd failed to help him prevent those events from occurring.

Become the night?

Fuck the night, he thought savagely, his gloved hands clenching upon the steering wheel. Unbidden memories superimposed themselves upon his conscious mind, taunting him in the clown's lubricious voice, and laughing at him with that high-pitched cackle that was his. Batman saw again the explosion that had ripped apart the velvet curtain lying over the dilapidated warehouse as if it was little more than a bed sheet. Saw the serpentine tendrils of smoke and flame slithering up towards the starless sky in a macabre dance. He saw himself running. He heard his breath rasping in his throat, vising in his chest. His thoughts were whirling now as much as they had then. Too late, he was too late. He'd always be too late. Then he saw Jason Todd as he'd last seen him: his still warm, lifeless body draped over his arms like a rag, his eyes forever closed in sleep.

_No_.

_This was not the night's fault_, he realized as his breath hissed out from between his teeth.

_It's my fault, _he thought_. I got Jason killed. I own that. I'll carry that like I carry everything else. It's my fault that the Joker was able to get his hands upon Jason. It's my fault for not seeing, not suspecting that he was in danger. I failed him. Failed as a father. Failed as Batman. I wasn't there when he needed me. And I will carry that guilt, and that regret with me, forever_.

_No_. He couldn't dwell on the death of Jason Todd. He was gone and he couldn't bring him back. It served no purpose to dwell on what he could not change. He had to get on with his life. He forced his mind back to the present. The Joker had (again) broken out of Arkham more than an hour and a half ago. He had to stop him before he could unleash whatever hell he'd plotted during his latest stay in the asylum. That was the reality in which he needed to remain. He tapped a button on the steering wheel and placed a call to Commissioner Gordon.

"Gordon," he heard him say.

"I'm on my way to Arkham," he said curtly. "Has there been any sign of the Joker?"

"Negative," Gordon replied. There was a sigh and Batman knew he was not going to like whatever it was that he was about to say. "Even though that imbecile Sharp has no damned clue as to how exactly the clown escaped his cell, I have a feeling the Joker has a partner who aided him with his escape. There's footage showing someone skipping down the hall right before the Joker was released from his cell."

"Where was Quinn when this all went down?"

There was a burst of static and he could hear Gordon barking out orders. Then he said, "Quinn was supposed to be in her cell at the time. How she managed to get out is another of those things that our new Warden has no damned idea about."

"I'll figure it out," Batman rasped before disconnecting the call.

A few moments later, Arkham Asylum loomed larger than life in front of him. Every pointed arch, ribbed vault, and flying buttress was made even more ominous set as they were among the skeletal figures that danced in the twilight. The wheels of the Batmobile spewed gravel as he drove through the massive iron gates. He immediately spied a group of doctors, asylum staff and guards mingling on the front steps of the Intensive Treatment building while S.W.A.T and other officers swarmed inside. He parked the Batmobile by a row of EMS vehicles and was about to step from the car when a soft chime alerted him to an incoming call. Only four people knew this private number, and he'd just spoken to one of them. Could it be Alfred then? He pressed a button with his thumb in order to answer.

"What is it, Alfred?"

"Bruce?" He heard Dick Grayson ask hesitantly. _Of course it's you_, was Bruce's first thought. Bitterness settled like a lead weight in the pit of his belly. Had it been a month since they'd last spoken and Dick lectured him about his methods and the lengths he was going to bring the criminals to justice? He couldn't remember. He didn't care. He was in no mood to be lectured about his methods when his oldest son hadn't even seen fit to come home for Jason's funeral. His eyes flashed feral in the darkness of the car's interior.

"I'm busy at the moment, Dick," he said curtly. "Is what you need to say to me important? Or can it wait?"

"It's important if you still give a damn about someone who thinks of you as a father, and mentor."

"That's rather funny coming from someone who walked out on his father, and mentor."

"I walked out on you?" There was a raw note of anger in the younger man's voice. Then Dick sighed. "Bruce, I know things are screwed up between you and me right now. However, this isn't about us. Or about the problems that are between us."

"Then why…" Bruce began but Dick cut him off.

"Raya is in Gotham, Bruce."

It felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. His breath whooshed out and his head spun.

"What?" he rasped. "Raya is here in Gotham?"

"Yes," was Dick's somber reply. "She's there in Gotham."

"Why?" Bruce snarled. "Why is she here? Why has she even bothered to come back? I thought she was happier being away from us?"

There was a sigh and Bruce could just imagine the unhappy look that was on the younger man's face. Dimly he wondered just when their relationship had deteriorated to the point where they were more adversaries than they were partners—or father and son. An ache swelled in his chest and his eyes were suspiciously blurry. He desperately wanted to bridge this gap that was between him and his boy. He just didn't know how. It seemed like everything he said, that he did, came out wrong. Then he heard Dick say,

"She's been living here with me for the last eleven months." A fresh surge of fury erupted inside the dark knight but he tamped it down, and waited for the explanation that would justify exactly why this had been kept a secret from him. A part of him, the last remaining rational part, could not help but feel a small trickle of pride for how well his son had learned to mask his tracks and movements. He'd come so far, learned so much and continued to do so even now that he was on his own. The other part of him, the part which was being gnawed on like a bone, wanted to reach through the phone and grab him by the throat. "She came home after..." Dick paused, sighed. "Look, Bruce, none of that matters right now. She's in Gotham. And if she's not curled up in a ball while panic rips her soul to shreds…"

"What do you mean 'while panic rips her soul to shreds'?" Bruce interjected in a low hiss. He heard a horn blare and heard Dick swear, foully. Where had his son picked up that language, he wondered? Was it something he'd learned during his times with the Titan's? Or something he'd picked up since striking out on his own? "Richard?"

He heard another low sigh and could well imagine that those blue eyes were waves of indecision. "She has post-traumatic stress, Bruce. Stemming from…"

"The night you were shot by Matthew Berkeley."

"Yes."

Bruce was silent while he imagined the emotional hell his imp had to be going through. Nightmares, hallucinations, panic attacks, difficulties sleeping, avoiding the places and the people who incite reminders of the traumatic experience were just the start of the symptoms associated with PTSD. A light clicked on within the embittered hero. "That's why she's stayed away, isn't it? Gotham is a trigger point for her."

Again Dick's answer was a soft, "Yes."

"Why is she coming home if she's still dealing with this?"

"You really have to ask that, Bruce?" Dick snorted a laugh. "What? Is it that hard to believe that Raya would sooner destroy _herself_ in order to save _you_ than save _herself _from suffering any more pain and misery than she already has?"

"Why are you calling to tell me this now?" Bruce demanded. "Why didn't you call me as soon as you knew she was back? Why not call and say that she is living with you in Blüdhaven. Why have you waited all this time before admitting you knew she was home?"

"Honestly?" There was a pause. "I was protecting her."

"Protecting her?" There was surprise as much as raw pain coating his voice. "Protecting her from what?"

"You have to realize that what happened the night I was shot left some deep psychological scars upon Raya..." Dick began but Bruce cut him off with a snap.

"Protecting her from what?" he asked with his last ounce of patience. "The truth this time, Richard."

"You," came the answer. "I was protecting her from you, all right?"

"From me?" Bruce said with a start of surprise. "Why me?"

"Because you are one of her biggest triggers. You, Gotham and her father specifically." Bruce opened his mouth, about to demand an explanation when Dick said, "Bruce, you haven't been the one who has held her every time one of her attacks set in. You aren't the one who has to talk her out of that hypersensitive state. Nor have you seen how much of a toll each attack takes upon her. And," there was a wealth of bitterness in Dick's voice now, "you aren't the one who has been there to comfort her every time she wakes, screaming at night because something she's seen, smelled, or heard has triggered her nightmare to return."

_She's just as afraid of me as she is __of the man who caused this fear to be born inside of her_. The knowledge of that, the hard truth of it, hurt a hell of a lot worse than being slammed into a concrete girder did. He saw Commissioner James Gordon, his ginger colored hair tousled by the breeze, standing on the steps of the Intensive Treatment building with Detective Harvey Bullock. He could tell that Bullock had spotted him by the slight squinting of the man's eyes and the way he flicked his cigarette to the ground. Suddenly, he was presented with a quandary: stay and help with the search for the Joker, or go and find the girl who was somewhere in this city, possibly locked in the midst of a massive panic attack.

He didn't even have to stop and consider his options.

"Where is she, Dick?" he asked as he pressed the button to fire up the Batmobile's turbine engine once more. "Where would she feel the most comfortable at this moment?"

"If she's anywhere," Dick said slowly. "It would be somewhere in Crime Alley. She's managed to navigate parts of that and the Gotham docks without it causing her to have too many problems. However…" There was another horn blaring, and Dick was swearing before he gritted, "There's something you need to take into consideration before you dash off in search of her."

"And what's that?"

"You can't approach her as you want to approach her." There was a second's pause. "She's not just some scared kid who needs Batman to shield her from the storm this time. She's not just mildly damaged because of a traumatic event. Raya's broken inside. And she's as fragile as that crystal vase you have in your bedroom. You can break her if you aren't careful."

He instantly bristled. "I think..."

This time Dick cut him off with a firm, "Bruce?" A pause. Then the younger man was saying, "If you barrel in and cause her to break psychologically?" There was a blade of steel coating the younger man's voice and reminding him that Dick was no longer a boy, but a full grown man. "You'll answer to _me_."

It was not, Bruce knew, a threat.

It was a _promise_.


End file.
